Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The city bled light. Montréal at night pulsed. Neon signs flickered over narrow streets, washing reds and blues across the pavement as the bikes rolled through Old Montréal like they owned it. The engines thundered, echoing off brick and stone, the sound chasing itself down every alley.
Razor rode point with Hemlock on his right. Lottie clung to his back.
Her arms were looped tight around his waist, fingers gripping the front of his cut like it was the only thing keeping her anchored. She was warm—too warm—and unsteady even sitting still, Her helmet bumping lightly against his shoulder every time the bike shifted beneath them.
“Easy,” he muttered, one hand briefly leaving the bars to press back against her thigh, grounding her. “Sit up, Lottie.”
She didn’t answer—just tightened her hold, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades like she’d already half checked out for the night.
Razor exhaled slowly, jaw ticking as he adjusted his posture to compensate. He rode smoother, cleaner—less aggressive than he normally would. Every lean into a turn was controlled, every shift deliberate. No sudden moves. Not with her on the back.
Chrome flashed under streetlights, tires humming as they rolled from uneven cobblestone to clean asphalt without breaking rhythm.
They passed a strip of late-night bars, crowds spilling onto sidewalks. Conversations dipped when the bikes came through. Heads turned. A few whistles cut through the noise, but Razor ignored it. His focus stayed forward, flicking to his mirrors just long enough to keep track of traffic.
The road opened up ahead, a longer stretch cutting between rows of glowing storefronts. Streetlights strobed overhead, painting them in flashes of gold and shadow.
A hand lifted beside him. Razor caught sight of it, easing the throttle just enough to acknowledge Hemlock signaling he was heading home. Razor glanced over, gave a short wave as Hemlock peeled off clean, drifting towards a side street, his taillight slipping away into the neon glow.
He felt Lottie's helmet nudge his back again. “Don’t forget about me,” she mumbled loudly, words slurred, barely carried above the sound of the engine and the wind.
“Not happening.”
Tapping his hand against Lottie’s thigh, her fingers tighten on his cut.
He glanced down briefly, more surprised than he should’ve been that she was still awake. Most women passed out quickly when they were this far gone—dead weight on the back, heads lolling with every shift of the bike. But not her.
Maybe it was the cool night air cutting through the city keeping her just this side of consciousness. Or maybe she was just stubborn enough to fight it. Either way, he adjusted his grip on the bars, riding a little steadier.
A short time later, Razor turned into the alley that was used as a driveway for the upstairs apartment of Rousso’s garage. Razor eased the bike down to a crawl. The city now dulled behind them, replaced by the low rumble of the engine bounding off the brick walls as he rolled to a stop.
He backed the bike in with practiced ease, then cut the engine, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
Dropping the kickstand, Razor patted Lottie’s hands.
“We’re here.”
Her fingers slowly unfurled from his cut, stiff from how tight she’d been holding on. He offered her his hand helping her off the bike.
Lottie swayed as she slid off the bike. Razor climbed off, his boots hitting the pavement. Wrapping an arm around her waist he led her towards the back stairs.
“C’mon.”
He led her forward as she struggled to stay steady, her steps uneven on the narrow stretch of concrete. Razor kept a firm grip on her arm, bracing her when she tipped too far to one side, guiding her up the steps one at a time.
“Keys.”
Lottie let out a soft, breathy laugh, her head tilting back. “They’re locked in my car.”
Razor stilled for half a second, jaw tightening. “Fuck.”
“I told you that back at the hotel,” she added, words slurring just enough to grate.
His grip shifted, tightening—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep her upright as she wobbled again.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Must’ve missed that part.”
“Here,” Razor said, guiding her down onto the step. “Sit while I call Vicious.”
Lottie shook her head, a loose, uneven motion. “He won’t help me.”
Razor frowned, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “Why not?”
She let out a small, humorless laugh, eyes unfocused as she leaned back against the railing. “He hates me… and so does Sway.” He watched as her fingers twisted in the fabric of her shirt. “She doesn’t really talk to me anymore. Not since Dawson.”
Razor stilled, thumb hovering over his screen as he looked down at her.
“That so?” he asked, voice quieter now—measured, like he was filing that information away for later.
Lottie nodded, her chin dipping toward her chest. “It’s all my fault.”
Razor didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure what to say.
He crouched in front of her instead, forearms braced on his thighs, studying her face as she swayed where she sat. The alley light caught the glassy sheen in her eyes, the way her guilt sat heavy even through the haze of alcohol.
“Everything feels like your fault when you’re drunk,” he said finally, voice low, even. Not soft—just steady. Grounding.
Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, but nothing came out.
Razor huffed a quiet breath, pushing to his feet, he hit Vicious’s number. The line barely rang before it clicked over.
“When he answered, Razor didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“Is there a hidden key for the upstairs apartment?”
A beat. Then, dry as ever—“Nice to hear from you, Razor.”
Razor’s jaw tightened. “Vicious, I’ve got a drunk Lottie sitting outside the apartment. Her keys are locked in her car—which isn’t here.”
Another pause, shorter this time. “Yeah. There’s one in the office. Use your key, go through the garage.”
“Thanks.”
That was it. Razor ended the call without another word, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
His gaze shifted to Lottie, still slumped on the step, barely holding herself upright. He didn’t like it—leaving her out here alone, even for a minute—but dragging her down to the garage in this state would be worse. Slower. Riskier.
“Stay put,” he told her, voice firm.
He waited just long enough to make sure she didn’t immediately try to stand, then turned and headed back down the steps, already moving fast.
In and out. Grab the key. Get her inside before she found a new way to make this night harder than it already was.
Razor found the key hanging on the corkboard in the office, right where Vicious said it would be. He pocketed it, already turning on his heel, retracing his steps back through the garage and up the stairs.
The alley door creaked as he pushed it open.
Lottie was still there.
Asleep this time, slumped against the metal railing like her body had finally given up the fight to stay upright. Her head was tilted to the side, hair falling across her face, breath slow and uneven.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
He unlocked the door and shoved it open,before bending to lift her into his arms. She didn’t wake as he carried her inside, her head resting against his chest with every step.
Razor moved through the apartment without slowing, straight to the bedroom. He laid her down carefully, easing her onto the mattress like she might break if he dropped her wrong.
Shoes came off next. One. Then the other. He tugged the blanket up over her, tucking it around her shoulders with a rough kind of precision that didn’t quite match the gentleness of the act.
For a second, he just stood there, watching to make sure she was actually settled. Then he turned away. In the kitchen, he grabbed a pen and tore off a scrap of paper. In a quick, messy handwriting he jotted down a message.
Make sure to drink plenty of water. It will make you feel better.
— Razor
He left it on the table before letting himself out, the door clicking shut behind him.